All Over Everywhere

Man, I feel like I'm going in about 10 different directions at once.

It's going to be warm in California. I won't have to wear a parka. Man, I hope we bought enough beer for tomorrow night. What if someone gets sick for the show? What if I fall down again? No, I won't be drinking. When I see CT, boy, am I going to [redacted] [redacted] him. What if I've fucked up and they pull our license? What if our houseguest thinks my house is dirty? Or ugly? And don't forget to take the address of where you're staying in San Fran. Those poor bartenders, Rice-a-roni Fuck Fest 2009. Oh, that Michael. Fucking hilarious.

Instead of being extra responsible and coming home early from work to clean and practice, I met Michael for a post-work drink. We sat at the bar in the Whalesbone and gossiped and laughed and said inappropriate things to the waitstaff.

I got back half-drunk and wound up, talking exactly one mile a minute.

When Shelley came over, I realized that half-drunk with only a couple of slices of bread and hummus to sop that up is a bad way to practice. I have those pieces memorized, and quite well by now, but when push comes to shove, the start of the next line sticks its head in the sand. Hopefully, when we're on stage, and push comes to shove comes back to push, I'll be able to yank 'em out.